Relativity
by snowflake912
Summary: Time, she thinks, needs to be redefined. She rearranges the pieces of their history, and at least ten combinations make sense. This one doesn't. Harvey/Donna Season 2
1. See It Your Way

Author's Note: Here's to my first foray into Suits fanfiction! This has been on my mind for a while. It's a Harvey and Donna fic set after the season 2 firing and returning incident. It's inspired by events on the show but doesn't particularly conform to them. _Relativity _here refers to - yes, none other than - Einstein's theory. It's about their story, their history, how time shapes, how it could have changed it, and how it could still change it. It's angsty, and will earn an M rating eventually. Besides using the present tense, which I've only done once before, I actually have an outline for this story (which I never do). It's going to be ten parts, each set at a different non-sequential moment in time.

Disclaimer: I'm a poor grad student. I own nothing and do this solely for entertainment purposes.

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**Relativity**

_1. See It Your Way  
_"_Oh, I wish that I could move you  
__Faster, be still or rewind  
__But it's a matter of time."  
__(Matter of Time – The Rescues)_

**_September 2012 -_**

She regrets having said it.

_The other time._

It tasted bitter on her tongue, like dark chocolate warmed to a slow sizzle, slithering down her throat. Hot and uncomfortable. Deliciously so. His golden eyes turned a shade deeper, lingered on hers like he could still taste _her_. There was a pause, a space of two heartbeats that brought back that balmy July night and how hot it had been in her small SoHo apartment. Then he forced his gaze away to a far corner of Manhattan, a hotdog stand and a child in colorful stripes – a place with no painful memories. When he looked at her again, he had donned his poker face, and he was the best damn closer in the city. She thinks she maybe imagined that first part. She can't tell anymore. Boundaries and memories have been blurring in and out of focus for months. These days, his fingers brush against hers as he hands her a file. She thinks nothing of it until she finds the heat of his piercing stare trained on her like maybe lines have been shifting in the sand for a decade. Like maybe things will never be the same again.

It's just that easy, a swipe of his palm over her Zen Garden, or three words uttered in perfect synchrony to the triad between an inhale, a heartbeat and an exhale.

_The other time._

She wonders when she will stop thinking about it. It comes to her in flashes and snippets, like a song stuck on a loop in her brain, the catch of his breath, the smell of her shampoo in his hair, the warm press of his lips against her throat. She can't quite remember what made her stop the last time – or rather _the other time_. She supposes it was Ryan Drake with his gentle green eyes and soft blond hair, personifying anything and everything Harvey Specter hadn't been to her. It was also the day, three months later, when he strolled into the office in his expensive shoes, navy blue suit tailored to painful perfection – just another day – and he met her gaze, steady as you please, and asked her to _pencil in a meeting with Scottie at 10 PM. _Unflinching, she asked him if he would like her to make a reservation, but he only grinned and winked in response. He didn't need a reservation because he was taking Scottie home. She smiled, the corners of her lips curling with a hint of suggestive teasing. It was so easy to slip back into their roles, that night forgotten as surely as if it had never happened. His tense bearing relaxed, and all the forts were back in business.

Pearson Hardman bustles around her, a flurry of activity with forty-six suits sitting heavily on a strained budget. She has her game face on even as she sketches out Ryan Drake's features in her memory. She's an excellent multi-tasker. She busily skims through legal documents while Ryan starts to take shape as human collateral damage.

_You know what's the funny thing about hurt people, Donna? They have no qualms whatsoever about hurting other people_.

He'd been good at calling her out on things. He'd been good about giving her the upper hand at a time when control felt like an elusive beast on the hunt. He'd been good for her until he knew too much and those gentle green eyes started to probe deeper, past her panache and her witty comebacks.

_Tell me about the last man you were with_.

She laughed because really sometime between reluctant confessions, blurring lines and heated kisses, it became hilarious. Or maybe it was her way of dealing with the pain, compartmentalizing little morsels and shelving them to be dealt with one at a time like punctuation marks in their story. Their history. She made a joke to Ryan, but her humor fell flat and was losing its punch. While navigating blind, he felt for the wound and proceeded to pry his fingers into the bleeding gash.

_Whoever he was, he really hurt you, didn't he? _

"Donna."

Her gaze swings upwards reflexively, but she's a woman too well-versed in pretense to be caught off-guard. She favors him with an exaggerated wink fit for a great night on Broadway. It brings a half-smile to his weary face, and she's not sure if it's because he sees through her or because underneath his polished and sleek veneer, he's exhausted. "I already called Benson and rescheduled his appointment till next Monday. Two new potential clients called in this morning – interesting prospects. I've sent you an email with the details. Lunch is on your desk, and I've delegated Mary Hughes to the boy wonder and Julianne Rice to Rachel. I coerced Louis into taking on Sarah Weiss," she rattles off her list without pausing because in their precarious footing of the post-firing-and-returning world, she has little space to navigate besides lists and errands.

By the time she's done, he has both elbows perched on the edge of her cubicle and a bemused grin on his face. "How did you get Louis to do that?"

She starts typing meaningless calendar reminders and shrugs the slim row of her shoulders. "I may or may not have let him into my cubicle."

His jaw drops comically at her nonchalant admission. "You _did not_!" He trails his gaze over her, and she can tell he's embroiling himself in the games because he desperately needs a reprieve from the tension coiling in his back.

She berates herself for being a shameless enabler. "A lady doesn't kiss and tell."

He pauses for a second, and it's one full second longer than he should have. The slash of a dimple at the corner of his mouth becomes more pronounced as he stares at her mouth. She thinks his gaze darkens again to the same shade of thick honey that held her captive on the corner of Broadway and Prince Street. When he snaps out of it, he looks completely unfazed except for the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. She suddenly feels like a novice at pretense. "Did you find anything in case thirty-one?" he asks, curt and clinical, but he doesn't really want to know. He wants a distraction.

"Case thirty-one?" she echoes, lifting one eyebrow mockingly. "These women have names you know."

Somehow, he finds a smug smile and straightens to his full height. "You know how I am with names, Dana."

"Funny," she deadpans and wishes he chose any other name with which to taunt her.

His smile quickly falls away, and she resents the concern that wells in her chest. "Donna," he sighs. "I'm screwed, aren't I? This is bad. This is as bad as it's ever been."

She feels raw, torn between her lingering resentment over their renewed collision about _the other time_ and the overwhelming urge to comfort him. "It's bad," she confirms, and she knows she's teetering on an edge.

"Yeah." He rakes the fingers of his right hand into his hair, leaving trails that look nothing like him. She wants to smooth them out, rearrange everything to its pristine perfection and go on pretending. She wants to run her own fingers through his hair until he's unrecognizable.

"You'll find a way." Her voice makes up in conviction for what it lacks in confidence.

"It feels like I've played all my cards. My back is against the wall. Hardman is closing in on us, backed by Zane and his bulldogs. It's turning into a shit show. Everyone is overworked and under-billed," he trails off to heave a long breath. "I'm tired." The small confession costs him a fortune in humility.

"Take the night off."

He gives her an incredulous look and moves closer, propping himself against the edge of her desk, mindless of her personal space. "In the middle of this mayhem, you want me to take a night off?" he asks, the thread of amusement in his voice unmistakable.

She rolls her eyes. "Seriously, put everything down tonight, and go out for a drink. Take a friend. Relax. Unwind. A fresh mind makes all the difference."

"You're my only friend," he teases, and somehow the tables have turned so dramatically it makes her head spin.

"That's a lie."

"You're the only friend I'd want to have a drink with tonight."

"That's a lot of modifiers." She looks at him a little too sharply, but it doesn't unseat him. Not in the literal or the metaphorical sense. She really needs to work on her glares. "And it's too bad because I'm unavailable." It's a blatant lie of course, but the last thing she wants to do is have a drink with him tonight.

He glances at his watch and frowns. "Oh, look at that, your boss is detaining you tonight. You'll have to cancel your plans and become available." He's all lethal charm now, flashing the grin that clings to the dimple at the corner of his mouth. "Come on, Donna, I'll let you take advantage of my fragile state of mind."

The joke falls flat because all she can think about is _the other time_. He reads her like he's been sitting cross-legged in her mind all along, privy to her innermost thoughts.

"Donna," he says softly. "It was a joke. We both know it wasn't like that." So now he wants to talk about it.

She goes back to typing fake memos, but her fingers hit the keys too hard. She creates a little ruckus in her peaceful universe. She can see him staring at her hands like he can somehow will them to stop flying over the keyboard. She types faster just to spite him.

He rubs a hand over his face, suddenly looking even more exhausted and infinitely older than he did a minute earlier. "I'm sorry. It was a stupid thing to say. I wasn't thinking…"

The typing mania stops abruptly, and the silence steals his words. "Harvey, _please_," she says emphatically and immediately misses the furious click of plastic.

He's quiet for half a minute, and it feels like the longest thirty seconds ever recorded in history. She's got a thing or two to add to Einstein's theory of relativity. Time has a funny way of stopping sometimes only to pick up and zoom away when you least want it to. "I thought you wanted me to talk about it," he says finally, and he looks earnest, confused. She's never wanted to slap him so much in her life.

"Not now," she clips out and keeps her hands busy, rearranging items on her desk, trying not to touch him, a task that's been made difficult given that he's sitting _on her desk_.

She knows he's angry when he pushes away from her desk suddenly, looks away and then looks back at her, lips pressed in a grim line. "I'm talking now," he says matter-of-factly.

_Take it or leave it, Donna_. Goddamn him. She tells herself she hates him, but she lifts her gaze to his angry stance, his burning eyes, and God she hasn't felt this way about him in years. "Not here," she counters, and this time she strives for calm.

Unfortunately, her contrived serenity does little to appease his ire. He reaches for her, fingers easily snaring her wrist before she can start phase three of her dismissive typing. She glowers at his hand where it rests on her arm, but he doesn't let her go. "My office," he bites out.

"We're both busy." She's _this _close to snapping into mulish mode. He seems to understand that he's scratching at the surface of her stubbornness, so his hold on her loosens, until his fingers encircle her arm like a light caress.

His voice loses its hard edge, and he lets her go. "We can take a ten minute break, Donna."

Indignant, she pushes back her chair, almost running over his foot in the process, and comes to her feet. He doesn't celebrate this small victory but starts walking towards his office. He stops at the door and waves her in, an unlikely moment to become a gentleman. When he steps in, he closes the door. Little good it does for all the glass. She entertains the thought of scratching one of his Pink Floyd records and playing it on a loop. _We're just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl, year after year_.

"So?" she begins, watching him pace the length of his office.

"This…" he says and waves a hand between the two of them. "It's weird. Since you got back, it's been weird."

_This_, she thinks, _is the world of post-firing-and-returning_. "It's not weird to me," she lies, and it becomes easier to believe it. "As far as I'm concerned nothing has changed."

He treats this like a game of poker and stares at her until he can see past her façade. "Donna, it's weird," he asserts, and he's a little impatient because her cards are on the table, and he wants to get down to the business of stripping her of everything she owns.

She swallows, but the grit in her throat is still there. At least he's not looking at her right now. She takes comfort in that as he continues to pace. "I shouldn't have said anything."

He stops as if this of all things is unexpected, and his eyes scan her features for clues. "About what?"

"About the other time."

It makes him laugh, and she's almost tempted to move in for the slap. She feels like laughing too because five years later, it's still tragically humorous. "You think you needed to say it for me to think about it?" he asks incredulously. There's something fierce about his expression that stills her, and she doesn't know what to make of it. He's almost disappointed, like it's her fault that she doesn't know he apparently thinks about _it_.

"I don't know."

"I think about it," he states, and it's nothing romantic like _I think about it everyday_. Nothing crushing like _I think about it because it was a fucking mistake._ Just _I think about it_. Here, Donna, another morsel to feed your soul with obsession.

"Harvey, I am _not in love with you_." She doesn't know why she feels the need to reassert this. It's maybe more for her benefit than his. "It was five years ago. We've both moved on from whatever that was. It was an emotional time for both of us, and we were just there."

He smiles a little, but it's not a happy expression. His eyes harden instead of softening, and he tucks both hands into his pockets. It makes him look detached in the perfect lines of his tailored black suit. She loves him in black. "You've always been excellent at rationalizing." It sounds more like an accusation than a compliment.

"It's the truth," she says, her voice softer to downplay the defensiveness creeping into her posture.

Harvey studies her long and hard. "Okay."

Disbelieving laughter flits past her lips. "That's it? Okay?" she repeats and throws both hands up resignedly before digging them into her hair.

"What do you want me to say?"

She shakes her head, hands sliding out of her coiffed locks. His eyes glimmer with something she doesn't understand as they follow her hands because maybe he thinks about _his_ fist in her hair. _I love your hair._ Damn him. "Not that," she says softly, drawing his gaze back to hers.

He invites another silence and basks in its presence, letting her words die a slow painful death. Time, she thinks, needs to be redefined. She rearranges the pieces of their history, and at least ten combinations make sense. This one doesn't. Then he says, "I wouldn't change it."

Donna doesn't think there's much else he could have said to completely unravel her. His eyes chase hers away from his basketball collection to the baseballs and finally the records, but she's given up too much to lay her final cards on the table.

"Donna," he sighs in frustration.

She spins on her heel and walks away, leaving silence in her wake.

**TBC**

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A/N: Reviews are love. Thanks for reading!


	2. Mountains out of Molehills

Author's Note: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews. I really appreciate them and enjoy reading all of your thoughts. It makes writing that much more fun! So thanks again, and I hope you continue to enjoy this story. Please forgive any typos or glaring grammatical errors. I write without a beta, and a single pair of eyes often glosses over mistakes.

Disclaimer: I still don't own them. They're still really awesome.

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_2. Mountains out of Molehills  
_"_So be gentle if you please  
__Cause your hands are in my hair  
__But my heart is in your teeth babe, and  
__It makes me wanna make you near me, always."  
__(Near You Always – Jewel)_

_**August 2007 – **_

He watches her dance.

She makes a breathtaking picture with her wild fiery hair in artfully tousled curls, whispering across her freckled shoulders, caressing her jaw. He gets glimpses of her through the clash of moving bodies, but he can tell in detail what her wispy little dress looks like. It's buttercup yellow and unassumingly innocent. A broad cream belt cinches the material at her waist, emphasizing the gentle dip. He remembers the span of her waist by measure of his hand and feels his palms warm at the thought. The dress is made of something whimsical. He decides it's chiffon, and he thinks of his hands snagged in it and how easily it will come apart.

She looks like summer, yellow and red and sun-kissed in all the right places. Maybe she's a little bit of autumn too. The scant light catches on her freckles until they burn like golden dust, and he can almost taste their warmth on his tongue – lavender soap and a light sheen of her perfume's mystique. He imagines her lips parting on a gasp, eyes closed, fingernails digging into his back, and all that flaming red everywhere. He gets restless, his blood coursing thickly through his veins, rushing to his extremities until he's physically aching with the need to touch her. Her dress tantalizes him as it slides against her body, riding a precarious line on her thighs. Effortlessly sexy, he thinks, and so damn complicated, which is why his hands are exactly where they are now. Still, he can't tear his eyes away even when Louis comes up beside him, dropping a line about how Rachel can throw a great party.

Met by silence, Louis picks up on his fixation because the way he stares at her is nothing if not obvious. "She's something, isn't she?" Louis is all smiles as his gaze mirrors Harvey's.

He feels a frown contort his brow and turns the full force of his glare on Louis, who swallows quickly and raises both hands. "Here, take this," he presses the tumbler of whiskey he's been nursing into Louis's hand and walks past him into the crowd, complications momentarily shelved. His eyes catch hers as the crush of people part to let him through. Their gazes lock like the opposite poles of a magnet, their pull irresistible.

There are familiar faces everywhere in the periphery of his vision. They surround her – the belle of Pearson Hardman. He can't think of a time he craved privacy more. James Moore, a senior associate, leans close and whispers something in Donna's ear that has her laughing, but she still doesn't look away. It's like she can't do anything else. When James follows Donna's intent stare, he finds himself sorely misplaced or something about the look on Harvey's face makes the younger man mutter niceties and slink back towards the bar.

Harvey's lips pull up at one corner in a lazy grin, and he steps close enough that she tilts her head back to look at him. Without a word, he takes her hand and pulls it up around his neck, pressing her fingers to his nape. His hand lingers over hers, the pad of his thumb tracing the delicate ridges and grooves of her knuckles. She steps into his embrace, and the charge between them is immediately electric. It hums like a livewire as he starts to move slowly, guided by the mellow beat of _Summer Love_. She lets him lead her, and with every synced shift of their bodies, his thigh slides between hers in a way that's considered inappropriate at any office function.

"Hi," he says finally, lips just shy of her temple. He inhales her and holds her in his lungs, intoxicated.

"Everyone can see us," she murmurs in response, her tone terse, her body coiled in his arms like a tightly wound spring.

"We're dancing, just like everyone else," he says, easy amusement lacing his husky voice. When she pulls back and lifts a single incredulous eyebrow, his hands at her waist squeeze just a little tighter, and she unconsciously moves closer. "It's a teambuilding activity."

He feels her quiet laughter against his neck and slips his hand to the small of her back. "I bet you've built many teams with this activity," she muses sardonically.

He ignores the jab because trotting down the memory lane of his exploits with Donna is a losing battle. Despite her ruse of sarcasm, she curves into him instinctively until they're touching almost everywhere, and her hair is a breath away from his cheek, driving him to distraction. "You're avoiding me," he says, and she tenses against him in silent confession. She _has_ been avoiding him for weeks ever since his father's funeral and that surreal night. He wishes he could find the words for the mess they're in, but he's never been good with words. Donna has been reluctant with hers. And they're at an impasse.

He pulls back enough to catch her flighty gaze, and when she tries to slip away he tightens his hold on her. He looks her straight in the eyes and realizes too late that his face is dangerously close to hers. She exhales sharply, and the warm air caresses his chin. "It doesn't look like I'm avoiding you now," she counters, lips curled in amusement. Within the blink of an eye, she transitions from daunted to dauntless.

He frowns and scans her features in the shifty darkness of a Manhattan club. _So complicated_, he thinks, _and so damn elusive_. And these days it's anything to get close to her because it's all he can think about. "I ambushed you," he points out and when she refuses to look at him, he pulls her close again. She comes more willingly this time, fingertips lightly tracing the hair at the nape of his neck. She does it so quickly, it could pass for an accident. But when one of her thighs slips further between his, he knows the name of this dance intimately.

"I'm glad we cleared that up," she whispers in his ear, her breath hot and steamy against his skin.

_Wicked woman_. He presses his hand into the small of her back. "Careful, Donna."

Harvey Specter can dance.

Donna doesn't know why it surprises her. She has known him long enough that she's seen him in clubs before, but he's always content to laze against the bar and peruse the crowd with a modicum of interest. Tonight, he's positively predatory.

He spins her out, twirling her around gracefully once, twice, a third time as they navigate the flow of inebriated dancers. He reels her back in, in perfect time with the beat. "This music burns my ears," he growls into her hair.

"Really? It's Justin Timberlake. He's almost as well-dressed as you are," she quips, moving her hand over his shoulder to toy with the open collar of his pale blue shirt.

He misses two steps, and his eyes glitter dark gold before he laughs with mirth. Even in the loud madness, women turn to look, their gazes wistful. He's a beautiful man, and the arrogant bastard knows it. When he twirls her again, he holds her far enough that he can drag his heavy-lidded gaze from her hair to her slightly parted lips and back to her eyes. His expression is cloudy with desire, and she's afraid she's pushed him far enough that he's going to kiss her. She's more afraid of how she'll inevitably melt into him if he does and become the talk of Pearson Hardman. _Poor Donna, I can't believe she actually fell for him. _She thinks of a hundred ways to run away but finds herself drawing closer still, mindless of the prying eyes around them. He doesn't kiss her but pulls her tighter into his embrace almost roughly. She feels dizzy and unsettled, and he steadies her by cradling her hips in his hands. His touch is warm and firm, and it incinerates her through the drifty material of her dress. His cheek flits against her hair, the five o'clock shadow of his beard ensnaring a strand of her hair. She doesn't realize how close he is this time until the tip of his nose gently nudges her cheekbone.

She sucks in a shallow breath. "Harvey," she warns, but her voice is breathy and wanting. _Needing_. "Don't."

Her protest is unconvincing at best, but he lets her go all too abruptly. She sways on the spot and mourns his warmth until his larger fingers curl tightly around her slim ones. The crowd shifts testily under his irked gaze. There's more curiosity than he likes to see. "Come with me," he says and pulls her into the mass of fluid bodies. He pushes past people with single-minded intent, making way for both of them, and the faces change from the familiar of Pearson Hardman to nameless New Yorkers clubbing on a Friday night.

She's never been so relieved to see strangers.

He stops and faces her, still holding onto her hand like he's afraid she'll disappear. Her lips twist ruefully at this unlikely dynamic. There is not a single place in this world she'd rather be, but they both know she'd escape in a heartbeat. It's painfully easy for him to shatter her like a delicate figurine slipping out of his grasp and finding the tiles below. His fixation on her endangers everything she's worked so hard to hold in check. Until five weeks ago, she'd been doing brilliantly well. Then there was that night, and everything came rushing out like the floodgates had been thrown open. It's too much for her to control because she knows that as much as he lusts for her, he can't possibly be what she wants him to be. And she can't possibly have less of him than she wants. Still, as he stares down at her now, he's unapologetically handsome, on the prowl, oozing with hunger. His eyes are dark in the shadows, fathomless. She stares back, looking the storm in its eye, and places her hands on his chest, palms flat. It's as much to touch him as to push him away. She wants him far, but not too far. She wants him close enough that she can't tell where she begins and he ends. His gaze drops to her hands, and he understands a physical warning when he sees one. He chooses not to acknowledge it, because it's taken him five weeks to corner her. And Harvey Specter is not a patient man.

"Harvey," she whispers, and this time her voice quivers with uncertainty as it falls into the music. _Show Me Love_ makes a clattering cadence to their tense interlude.

She searches his face, touching on the dimple at the corner of his mouth. She loves the way it creases when he smiles. He's not smiling now, but the storm on his face is just as haunting. She thinks of how good his dimple tastes under her tongue and feels her resolve weaken as he gently moves into her personal space and cradles her waist, long fingers leaving impressions on her flesh. He starts dancing again, his legs tangling with hers, his hands uninhibited as they travel up her sides to cup her jaw and tangle in her hair. His lips hover close to hers, accidentally brushing against hers, and she thinks she might die from the sudden curling sensation in the pit of her belly.

_She_ kisses _him_. It's not something she expected to happen when his little game started. But it's almost inevitable when the fingers of his right hand fist in her hair, his other hand flirts with the side of her neck, and she can feel the beginnings of his erection against her hip. He tastes like warmth and hard liquor and the chocolate mints she always steals from his desk. And he kisses her back like his life depends on it, like he hasn't been able to think of anything else for weeks. His tongue is possessive and persuasive as it plunders her mouth, and she's definitely surrendered the role of aggressor. He embraces the clandestine liberties of anonymity with flair, his sure hands skimming over her body, finding every inch of accessible skin. She's almost unaware of them. Almost. Then he starts caressing her thigh, the hem of her dress clinging to his wrist without fuss. He draws lazy shapes on the inside of her thigh, and she wants to clamp her legs together, but his own muscular thigh is wedged between them.

She whimpers into his mouth and bites his lip hard enough to make him groan. The tips of his fingers feather against the edge of her lacy underwear. She moans and feels one of his hands slide around her to rest on the curve of her buttocks. She runs her hands from his elbows up his arms, lingering over the hard muscles shifting under her touch. He's all heat and muscle and sinew, and she wants to sink her teeth into his bicep and then lick it better. She wants to do depraved things to him with her lips and tongue and teeth. Her hands drift into his hair, combing messy trails, and she presses the pads of her fingers lightly into his scalp.

He breaks the kiss, but his hands continue to wreak havoc on her senses. "You feel so good," he breathes.

"Harvey," she gasps and presses her hands to his chest again, this time resolving to push him away.

He covers them with a single hand, collecting them like prized possessions. They're limp in his hand as he lifts them to his lips and presses kisses to her skin. When he looks at her _like that_, there's very little she can say no to. He gathers her against him as close as humanly possible and nuzzles her nose with his. He starts to kiss her again, and she forgets why this is such a terrible idea.

"Get a room!"

The crude voice, resounding with male laughter, penetrates the haze around her. She breaks free of his embrace, and the thousand reasons why she can't do this become painfully clear. For a few seconds, he looks confused and reaches for her again, his hand curling in the flimsy material of her dress. The jaunty yellow looks shockingly beautiful caught in his tanned fist. Closing her eyes, she steps back, and he lets go of her.

"Donna," he pleads. She can barely hear him over the music, but his swollen lips, smeared with her lipstick, are easy to read. The pleading expression on his face twists like a knife in her chest.

"I can't do this," she says and shakes her head emphatically. She doesn't think he can hear her either, but she turns around and starts pushing through the crowd. She may be running. She's not entirely sure. She also may be crying because the dark, drunken faces are leering at her through a shivering pool of clear water. Everything is hazy, and it feels like she's been toeing the line on a high wire. And she's crashing back down to a New York sidewalk. She barely acknowledges anyone even as the faces turn familiar again. Wordlessly, she reaches for her clutch and grabs it off the chair beside Rachel's.

"Donna, are you okay?"

She shakes her head and plunges into the crowd again. It thins considerably as she nears the exit. Within minutes she's under the clear, inky night sky. It feels so good to breathe again. Never mind that he's all she can taste, that his scent is clinging to her hair and that her skin is still flushed with the impressions of his fingertips and lips. Pulling a deep breath into her lungs, she lets it out slowly. _Breathe, Donna._ Raising her arm, she hails a cab and clambers into the backseat like she's still running away.

"Where to darlin'?" the cab driver drawls, pursed eyes assessing her in the rearview mirror.

"Mott and East Houston street, please," she calls back and glances outside the window. Harvey is nowhere to be found, and she curbs down the disappointment in her chest. The ten-minute ride through Manhattan's busy streets does little to clear her mind. She's still replaying the minute details of their encounter when she pays the taxi driver and starts walking towards her apartment complex.

She finds Ryan Drake sitting on the third rung leading up to the building, knees pulled up in a faded pair of jeans. A black t-shirt makes his eyes and hair look even brighter in the streetlight. Her doorman eyes him dubiously, and she freezes at the sight of him.

The least surprised of the three of them, Ryan smiles at her unhappily. "Hey," he greets her.

The doorman steps outside, defensive and ready to protect her from the larger man. Donna waves him back with a reassuring smile.

"Ryan, what are you doing here?"

"You weren't home," he says by way of explanation.

Her mind is muddled with Harvey, and his kisses, and she can barely think straight. "I was at an office thing," she says quickly, and when his eyes trail down her dress, she frowns. "A party thing," she adds impatiently. "Did I – did we say we'd meet up? I'm sorry I must have…"

"No, we didn't. I just wanted to talk. I've had a really, really bad day."

_Welcome to the club._ She assesses him for three heartbeats. "Why don't you come up?"

He comes to his feet, shakes out his long legs like a dog coming in from the rain, and follows her up the stairs.

**TBC**

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A/N: Thank you for reading! Reviews make me immensely happy, so please let me know what you think.


	3. Sitting on a Fence

Author's Note: I'd like to start by thanking you all for your lovely reviews. I'm flattered by all your kind words! I'm sorry this took longer than usual. I was away for spring break last week, and it feels like the excessive sunshine has dulled my wits because I wrestled this chapter for days before feeling comfortable enough to post it. It's not exactly where I want it to be, but it has to do. Also apologies for the abrupt shift in perspective from Harvey to Donna last chapter. I had a star there as a separator but FF ate it for some reason. I've settled for some underscores and o's here when there's a shift in perspective. I hope you enjoy reading this!

Disclaimer: Still not mine - sadly. I really need to get in on this tv show business, paying beautiful and talented people to play out the scenes in my head.

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_3. __Sitting on a Fence  
_"_It's all you want, all you want, and you run  
__But it won't change a thing."  
__(Drive – Dawn Landes)_

_**July 2007 – **_

The ambivalence rattles him.

He oscillates between despair, relief and wonder. He imagines a three-pronged spectrum and dallies between extremes as his memory tosses out snippets of images and conversations.

"_We therefore commit Gordon Specter's body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life."_

He can almost feel the angry July sun burning at the edges of his vision – red and hot and merciless – much like it spills now into Donna's bedroom. Her windows are bereft of blinds. The smell of freshly dug soil assails him, and the quiet hum of suburbia bows respectfully to the clatter of packed dirt against the gleaming coffin. There's such finality to everything – life in a box, tidied and ready for desiccation. Death and _life_, he thinks, staring at Donna's hand rising and falling to the pattern of his breathing. Her fingertips lay against the skin just above his heart as if poised to strike the keys on a piano.

"_I'm sorry, Harvey." _

_She sneaks up on him after the service, after everyone is gone and his guard is down. Typical of her, he thinks, to deal in sucker punches. "I don't want you here," he says frostily. Stubborn conviction keeps his back turned to her, but it's a childish feat and she's much too polished to succumb to it._

_She steps out from around him in swathes of expensive black lace and silk. At sixty-three, Melinda Donovan nee Watts is so majestically beautiful that his father's ghost aches from the afterworld. "I want to be here for you, darling. I know how much you loved him." Reaching for his hand, she lifts it and encloses it in her cool palms. The platinum ring around her fourth finger bites into his skin. Her smile is sadness and muted dimples._

_He calls her opportunistic in his head but returns her smile with one that's just as voracious. "Already moving in on his share of the Specter boys?" he chides her. "The body is still warm, Mother."_

_She stiffens and releases his hand, her smile frozen like she's had an unpleasant encounter with his demons. "How can you be so cruel?" The rhetoric is a lovely prelude to the pretty tears she delicately dabs away. He narrows his gaze on her and wonders how she could possibly be surprised. Does she not see the broken mirror he does when he looks at her? "His death is a tragedy," she says. "You must be devastated. Let me be your mother, Harvey." _

"_I'm glad he's gone," he corrects her. "It ends his perpetual suffering over your miserable existence." His first acknowledgement of the relief comes hand in hand with the guilt. _

_She looks like he just slapped her. It's just as well; he feels like he's been kicked in the teeth every time he sees her. "That's a terrible thing to say." _

"_It's time for you to leave." _

_Their gazes clash, and they wage a battle in what he dubs their very own Cold War. A long minute ticks by until she finally nods in defeat, the tilt of her chin proud and unrelenting. _

_She dissolves into the shadows of the church like an illusion._

He lingers on relief. There's nothing quite like the wretchedness of a life hinged on Melinda Watts. He tells himself his father is better off, and part of him believes it. The guilt still gnaws at him, a low rumbling discomfort in the pit of his belly. He dissociates it from Melinda and the mislaid sadness he finds in her eyes. Villains don't partake in sadness.

_Christmas Eve finds them sipping forty-year old Macallan by a roaring fire. _

_Harvey talks about the women in his life because his father asks. He mentions names and beautiful faces and makes it a celebration of his eternal bachelorhood. _

_Less amused, his father musingly savors the scotch. "Specter men are monogamous, son. You'll see." And it's just like his father to say something like that._

_His chest swells with bitterness, and he tastes anger on his tongue like something unfamiliar and acrid. Lifting his gaze from the fire to the other man's troubled features, he swallows and finds his throat tight. "I'm more like her than you know."_

_They don't have to say who _she_ is before Gordon Specter turns on him fiercely, black eyes more alive than Harvey has ever seen them. "You're nothing like her or me. Nothing," he emphasizes. "You are better." _

When grief kicks in, he feels a heavy weight on his chest, and he almost wants to push Donna's unassuming hand away. He can't fathom what that would mean, so he stares at it instead. Her skin is pale against his, golden where the sunlight catches her forearm from elbow to knuckles. She wears dark nail polish that must be a shade of burgundy but he calls it black because the world is easier in shades of gray. He wishes she wasn't touching him and envies her the temporary sanctuary of sleep.

"_Okay, kids, I'll leave you to your boy talk. There's a slice of pecan pie with my name on it at Bubby's," Donna announces and pushes her chair back. The _Hudson Clearwater _is abuzz with post-lunch chatter, and when she comes to her feet several gazes are drawn in appreciation. Harvey fixates on her nude, ridiculously high heels and their bright red soles. _

"_Pecan pie! A woman after my own heart," Gordon Specter laughs and holds out both hands for her. She clasps his open palms and leans down to plant a firm kiss on his ruddy cheek. _

"_I'll see you soon, Gordon," she promises warmly, and he swears his father blushes. Giving him an affectionate smile, she straightens, turns to Harvey and waves at him before weaving her way to the exit._

_She leaves behind a chasm of energy that's hard to fill, so they entertain a comfortable silence. _

"_You care about Donna," his father notes, choosing four of the most troubling words to banish the quiet._

"_Of course I do," he replies easily, unruffled as he dodges Gordon's stare. "She's my best friend, and for all intents and purposes my much better half."_

_His father hums in approval. "She's also stunning."_

"_Sporting a little crush on Donna, Dad?" he teases and tries to quiet the erratic thud of his heart. It makes no sense that this should unsettle him, so he chalks it up to some variation of white coat syndrome._

_Gordon scoffs and feels for his mustache, an accessory Harvey had coerced him to sack a decade ago in favor of a more modern clean-shaven look. He still goes in search of it whenever he's feeling pensive or outwitted. "Maybe if I were some twenty years younger and ten times better looking." He leans back into his chair, and the sunshine sinks into his wrinkles. "Like if I were you for example." _

_Shaking his head, he makes a show of adding sugar to his coffee. He likes his coffee bitter, but keeping his hands busy takes precedence. "I don't cook in my own kitchen. Things get messy. You need to clean up and do the dishes," he reasons. _

_His father shrugs and looks at him meaningfully. He doesn't push or pull. He doesn't make grand statements or issue ultimatums. He doesn't call him an idiot, but Harvey can tell he's thinking it. A self-effacing man, Gordon merely smiles. "I've always loved home-cooked meals," he says. _

He takes her in, and for a few precious moments the universe contracts to the here and now. She looks like Venus, splendidly naked, draped in golden sunlight, bright white sheets tangled between her long legs, hair ablaze like a wanton flame. She _is _stunning, and Harvey thinks he's known that for years. Every aberration on her flawless skin is his doing. There are two hickeys on her shoulder and stubble burns on her breasts. He feels like a rowdy teenager; it's nothing like him to get carried away and leave visible marks on a lover. By the time his gaze latches onto her pout, he's hard, frustrated that she's asleep and relieved for reasons he doesn't quite understand. He flattens her palm against his chest. She stirs, makes a sleepy disgruntled sound and pulls her hand from under his to tuck it beneath her cheek. Her breathing evens out.

He suddenly feels incredibly alone.

"_If you're seeing your father, give him these." She drops a white envelope on his desk. "He's mentioned it a few times. Maybe he'll take his lady friend," she muses and her eyes twinkle with hopeful delight._

_He slides the envelope open and pulls out two tickets to a Chris Potter concert. "His lady friend?" he echoes. _

_She stops at the door and turns to face him, head cocked to the right. Red cascades over the shoulder of her black dress, and her smile is full of wry mirth. He thinks of temptation and the forbidden. "Daddy keeping secrets from his little boy?" she teases. _

_Harvey raises both eyebrows and sits back in his chair. "He has a lady friend?" he repeats._

_She shrugs, and he likes the way her smile makes way for a pensive frown like she can tell how much this means to him. The dismantling of Mellie Watts. "She's just a friend," she tells him, treading cautiously on his rampant hopes._

_It takes two beats of silence for him to reclaim his game face. "How do you know this?" _

"_I'm easy to confide in." _

"_And I'm not?" he scoffs indignantly. _

_She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and starts to leave._

"_Donna," he calls out, stilling her. "Thank you."_

__o_o_o_o_o__

He looks odd and out of place in her living room. She thinks if she blinks hard enough, he'll be gone, but nothing in this new surreal world is as expected. Several blinks later, he stands tall, with his back turned to her, squinting at Manhattan through her windows. He wears his grief and last night's clothes like a burden. His hair is wet like he just came out of her shower, and he looks nothing like himself.

Everything's changed.

Barefoot and clad in an oversized nightshirt, she feels exposed and vulnerable. Every instinct she possesses spurs her back into her bedroom where she could hide out until he leaves and the world resumes spinning. It's a terrible plan, and he turns around on cue as if he can sense her fight or flight response kick in.

"Donna," he says slowly – heavily. He looks fragile, breakable, and she almost can't breathe.

She can't breathe and it makes her feel claustrophobic in her own home. "It's okay," she says calmly, her voice measured. The underlying tremor is barely noticeable. She crosses her arms over her chest, and his eyes follow the movement intently. "It's okay. When grieving over a great loss, people turn to sex because it's the most primal way to feel alive. It's a reaction to grief," she explains. The logic is impeccable. Her voice doesn't tremble. She doesn't care for the whisker burns on her breasts or the dull ache between her thighs. She simply doesn't care for any of this.

"Donna," he repeats, and the steadiness of his voice makes her sound manic. She instantly starts to resent him. "I," he clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. "_We _didn't use condoms."

She blinks. Once. Twice. He blurs into a silhouette, tawny in the sunlight, but he doesn't disappear. This is much too real for her liking. She heaves in a long, soothing breath and brings him back into focus. He looks worried, worn-down – weary. _Condoms_, she repeats to herself, because last night she and Harvey – _Harvey_ – engaged in what seemed like multiple attempts to procreate. "I'm not on the pill," she whispers more to herself than to him and starts calculating furiously. She's so panicked she can't remember any monumental dates. _Fuck_. _Well, that's exactly what got you here, Donna._ She stubbornly fights the tears burning at the backs of her eyes. The giant knot pushing its way down her throat does little to help.

He closes his eyes. It's his only visible reaction to this piece of news. Harvey Specter – New York's best closer has an iron grip on his emotions. She wants to grab his shoulders and shake him hard. "It's okay," he breathes finally, and it sounds like they've come full circle. "Chances are nothing's going to happen. Let's not worry before we have to." She's frozen as he walks up to her, slides an arm around her shoulders and presses a kiss to her forehead.

Before her traitorous body succumbs to his warmth, she breaks free of his embrace, palms pushing into his chest. He gives her a puzzled look, and she swallows thickly. "Your father is dead," she states, and his eyes flash with barely contained sorrow. "Your father died, and we…" She gestures wildly with her hand. "We made a mistake."

His sad gaze hardens imperceptibly, and he shakes his head in something that looks like vehement denial. "Don't make it about that," he says.

The twist of her lips is more sarcastic than she feels. "Then what is it about?" She tries not to make it sound like a challenge, but they both recognize it for what it is.

He stares at her, dark eyes speaking a language she does not understand. He looks like he's about to say something; he opens his mouth but no words come out. She thinks that hurts more than the silence.

When she laughs, he is just as surprised as she is by the misplaced sound. It's far from amused, and his brow furrows with concern. "I'm really sorry about your father, Harvey. He was a wonderful man, but I need to leave. I can't deal with this," she mutters and starts backing away.

His reflexes are quicker than her flight. He grabs her arm, holding her in place. She doesn't know it now, but it perfectly foreshadows the next year of their lives. They dance in ever-growing circles, taking one step forward, and falling ten steps back. "Where are you going?" he asks incredulously. "You _live_ here."

"Out." Her toneless response infuriates him. She can see it in the way he clenches his jaw like he's biting back curses. There's too much anger in their hurried exchange, and she wonders where all the agony comes from.

"You're running away from this," he accuses her.

Donna smiles with a combination of self-derision and mockery, and she deludes herself into believing she's in control. "From what?" she asks curiously.

The stony expression on his face doesn't change, but the vein in his temple throbs furiously.

Control starts to elude them both. Part of her relishes in pushing his buttons because most days it feels like he's walking all over hers. Another far more empathetic part berates her for piling on the misery. When she speaks next, she summons her rational, calm voice and gently slips her arm out of his grasp. _Damage control._ "Let's not pretend this is something it's not. I'm going to leave, and when I come back you won't be here. On Monday, we'll both go to work and everything will be back to normal."

It's the smartest thing she's heard from either of them since last night, but he looks at her like she's being hysterical. She supposes she is. Her emotions are running rampant, fluctuating dramatically between the urge to curl into him and make him stay and the more pressing need to physically push him out of her apartment and shut the door.

He releases a long-suffering sigh and paces to the window and back. When he looks at her, his eyes glitter with resolve. "Last night, you said…"

"It didn't mean anything," she cuts him off. Her stomach clenches painfully as the words replay in her mind like a skipping record. She thinks hearing them from him would undo her completely. "It was great sex, that's all." She ties it up neatly and hopes he won't undo her tidy ribbons.

Dark eyebrows climb his brow in disbelief, and he pauses long enough to revise his tactics. Then he steps closer and reaches out to tenderly cradle her elbows in his palms. He smells like a combination of Harvey and her shampoo. "Donna, don't do this," he pleads quietly, and she supposes it's as much of a confession as she's going to get this time around.

It's not nearly enough. "Do what?" she presses on doggedly.

"I want to talk about this," he says and brings a hand to her cheek. His thumb lightly strokes the line of her jaw. The intimacy of the act almost shatters her.

She feels another lump cluster in her throat and steps away from his touch. "I have no time for this," she says impatiently; it also means she _won't_ make time for this. "I'm going to buy the morning after pill. Then I'm going to take it and forget this ever happened," she lays out her plan over a breathless ramble, grateful that her voice doesn't tear on the jagged edges of her words.

Harvey takes the verbal slaps with a stride. She wishes he would just desert her and let her deal with the inevitable pain. "I'm coming with you," he says because it's his prerogative to be contrarian in this convoluted universe.

"No you're not. I need to be alone," she asserts.

"Then I'll wait for you here."

"Don't wait. I won't come back."

"Stop pushing me away," he snaps at her, and all the frustration he's been reining in pours into his posture. It's raw and unsettling, and it almost makes her want to suffer the blows of this fallout and let him escape unscathed.

Instead, she narrows her gaze on him. "Stop acting like you don't want me to," she retorts, the syllables short and drawn out like a despondent melody.

He grinds his teeth so hard his jaw starts to twitch. "Stop acting like you know everything," he bites out.

She laughs, and she doesn't know how it happens but she tastes her own tears. They sting like regret on her tongue. "I don't know everything, Harvey, but I do know _you_."

That stumps him. He glares at her, but his gaze keeps softening until it looks like he's fighting the impulse to console her. He doesn't do well with crying, so she gnaws the inside of her cheek, willing the tears away. He walks across the rug, sticking out like a sore thumb, and sits in the middle of her off-white couch. The space shrinks around him until he's the only thing she recognizes in her own living room. "I'll wait," he says in a tone that brooks no argument.

She shrugs and walks into her bedroom, slamming the door with finality.

She washes up and changes into a seashell summer dress that hangs off her unmarred shoulder. It's a hurried and unembellished effort, but when she steps out his gaze devours her like she just walked off a catwalk. Her face is scrubbed clean of their conversation, and he's still perched on her couch. Wordlessly, he watches her check the contents of her purse and drape it over her shoulder. She doesn't say anything to his brooding silence as she leaves her apartment and gently shuts the door.

When she returns, it's almost midnight. Her apartment is empty and bears no traces of his presence.

She curls into his spot on her couch and cries in gut-wrenching sobs that sound incredibly lonely.

She promises herself it's the only time she'll ever cry over Harvey Specter.

**TBC**

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A/N: Thank you for reading. Reviews are love! xx


	4. I And Love And You

**Author's Note:** This took a little longer than I thought it would. Thank you to all the lovely reviewers. Your kind words are amazing and inspiring! They give me just the right kick when I need to get back on the writing bandwagon! I hope you enjoy this.

**Disclaimer:** Still a poor grad student.

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_4. I And Love And You  
_"_Another love has come and gone, and the years keep rushing on  
__I remember what you told me before you went out on your own,  
_'_Sometimes to keep it together, we got to leave it alone'  
__So you can get on with your search, baby, and I can get on with mine."  
__(Wasted Time – Eagles)_

_**December 2012 – **_

She stops thinking about him.

It happens gradually, sometime between orange autumn leaves and pellets of icy hail. Memories start bleeding into nothingness, washing away with the rain, and Scottie sweeps in to play the hero to his happy ending. Granted, most days he looks anything but happy. The years have attuned her to the nuances of his expressions, and this winter's smiles glow with falseness and élan. He entertains the newcomers with vintage scotch and fabricated smiles, and October brings a lot of firsts to their expanding universe. He turns off the intercom. She works _around_ the storm brewing behind his glass walls. He asks Scottie to stay, and Donna says nothing. When he and Scottie take on their first big trial, he doesn't ask for the can opener.

Before the firsts, they talked about it once. She took measured steps into his office and found herself defending Scottie and Zoe, telling him to listen to _his heart _of all things. Their words rang with frustration and the unspoken, and it felt too much like their talk about _the other time_. He was just as aggravated, and she left it feeling just as hollow, his question burning in her mind like an accusation.

_Is this about you?_

She denies it to him and to herself, and everything helps her not think about him.

November brings Tom Walker, heartbroken and looking every bit like a young Alain Delon, from Portland to her Bikram yoga studio in Manhattan. It takes her a week to fall in bed with him, after she's sure he's emotionally unavailable and has nothing to do with the law. She can't help but think of a catch-22, but the sex is good enough to not make it matter. It becomes a ritual of sorts. On odd nights during the blurry weeks, they smile at each other guardedly and drink cocktails in crowded bars then end up tangled in her bed sheets. He leaves before she asks him to, and she likes the arrangement a bit too much.

December comes with Christmas lights splashing more colors across the city. The cheer is lost on her, but her newfound liberty makes her feel alive – or numb. She's not sure, but she doesn't dwell on it. She lets Rachel plan a _magnificent night out_ and wears her favorite green halter dress.

The New York cab drops them off on a cold sidewalk in the Meatpacking District. Rachel takes her arm and walks her in the direction of the Standard Hotel, chattering incessantly about Mike, their fledgling romance and his road back to Harvey's good graces. Donna doesn't acknowledge the feeling of dread creeping into her gut until they stride past the hotel's yellow revolving doors and step into an elevator bound for the eighteenth floor.

She takes in a steady breath and stands straighter in her nude peep-toe Louboutins. "The last time I was here…"

"Celebrating Hardman's downfall, I know," Rachel cuts her off cheerfully and lightly taps her phone into her open palm.

Donna frowns at the nervousness behind the gesture. Rachel's casual avoidance of looking her in the eye tells Donna there's something she won't like. Her phone vibrates, a text from Tom momentarily distracting her.

_Tom W: Plans tonight?_

She locks the phone and returns to the elevator. "You're seriously taking me to _Boom Boom Room_ on a Thursday night?" she presses.

The younger woman laughs airily. "Wow, Donna, you should go out more. It's called _Top of the Standard _now, and it's very in," she promises as they step out of the elevator and are greeted by a blonde twenty-something who starts blabbering incessantly to _Miss Zane_.

Their coats are whisked away amidst an exchange of pleasantries, and eventually they're escorted to a small table right across from the bright bar. A live band fills the sophisticated ambience with jazz music. Floor to ceiling windows offer an unrestricted, three-sixty view of Manhattan, offset by golden pillars and giant chandeliers.

"This place _has_ changed," Donna remarks as the waiter leaves with their orders.

"Sunset is the best time to come here. Breathtaking view, a little too romantic for the two of us," Rachel jokes.

Donna laughs and drinks in the opulence of the place. Although completely revamped, the corners still ring with unsettling familiarity and things she no longer thinks about. On a whim, she retrieves her phone and quickly replies to Tom's message.

_Donna: Top of the Standard with friend from work. You?_

It takes him less than a minute to reply. _Uncomplicated_, Donna muses with a small self-deprecating grin.

_Tom W: Heading out for drinks with a friend. Wanna end up at the same place? ;) _

Across the table, Rachel eyes her curiously. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing important," she brushes the question off and decides that sex with Tom is not the worst thing that could happen tonight.

_Donna: Should be fun._

"So, this place," Rachel begins, leaning across the table conspiratorially. "You and Harvey, five years ago, what happened here?"

Donna sits back, her phone forgotten. She masks her surprise behind a thoughtful frown even as her heart threatens to shatter her ribs and beat straight out of her chest. "Is that why you brought me here?" Her tone is accusatory and Rachel shrugs sheepishly. "Nothing happened," she lies. She tells herself it's not a complete lie and tries not to resent Rachel for aggravating forgotten wounds.

Rachel raises both eyebrows and smiles kindly at the waiter who arrives with their drinks. Donna takes immediately to her cosmopolitan.

"Really Donna, I was there," she says and sips her gin and tonic.

"So?" With half of the cosmopolitan already in her system, her nonchalance seems contrived at best.

"You lied to me before about having _never_." Rachel holds up her fingers in air quotes and tilts an uneven smile at Donna. "That night, Hardman's going away party, you both disappeared and then you came running back, took your purse and left without a word to anyone," she pauses and thoughtfully considers her for a second. "It was dark, but you looked like you were crying."

Donna rolls her eyes dismissively. "You might be reading too much into it."

"Harvey came after you and asked if I'd seen you."

An image of him as he was that night taunts her. His cheeks are flushed with desire, his eyes burning, his touch robbing her sanity. "He probably wanted to chat," she suggests and makes herself believe it because the ruse of denial is remarkably easier than the truth.

"Your lipstick was on his mouth, and everyone saw you dancing before you disappeared," Rachel states matter-of-factly.

Donna gives her a dirty look. "How'd you know it was my lipstick? It's not like Harvey is ever lacking for female company." It's not like she cares about that either. It's amazing how little she cares about everything lately. Most days she feels like a casual bystander, watching her own life transpire.

"Donna," Rachel says at last, and her voice is chiding.

"Okay fine. It was my lipstick," she confesses and downs another long sip of her drink. She's so over this. She can talk about it if she wants to. She just doesn't want to.

"That's it? No explanations?" Rachel prods, eyes glittering curiously, her own drink set aside in favor of this fruitless hunt.

Donna finishes her drink and uses the snowy white napkin to dab at her lips. It comes back with a light sheen of bright red lipstick. "I wasn't aware I owed you an explanation." The words are harsher than she intends for them to be.

Rachel looks appropriately miffed as she retreats to her side of the table and goes back to carefully sipping from her sweating glass. "You don't. I'm sorry," she apologizes.

Donna sighs as the guilt sets in. "Don't be. I'm sorry for being a jerk. It's a sensitive subject," she offers a humble smile. Signaling for the waiter, she prepares to delve into the forgotten. "My lipstick was on his mouth?" she asks with a rueful smile. "Scotch, neat," she quickly tells the waiter.

Rachel's smile turns wicked, and her coffee brown eyes sparkle with intimation. "All over his mouth actually." She gestures to her own mouth. "I handed him a napkin and awkwardly pointed at his mouth and said 'lipstick'. He hasn't looked at me the same since."

The notion makes Donna giggle. There was hardly anything funny about that entire day, but in retrospect it's easier to find humor in the entire mess. "God, that's awful," she mutters and gratefully takes her drink from the waiter.

"He kind of smiled self-consciously and went to the restroom. When he came back – sans lipstick – he took his jacket, talked to Jessica for all of one minute and fled the scene." Rachel stabs the wedge of lime in her drink with the stirrer. "He came to see you, didn't he?" When she looks up, her questioning gaze catches Donna's gaze full on.

"Yes," she answers honestly.

Rachel lets out a breath of laughter as if she's known all along. "You're going to make me ask?" she teases.

Donna shakes her head and relishes the smoky tang of whiskey on her tongue. "Nothing happened." It's less of a lie in this context. When Harvey came knocking on her door that night, Ryan Drake was already in her living room. There'd been foolish anger, misplaced jealousy and jarring loss – nothing worth sharing.

"By nothing you mean you didn't sleep with him."

She thinks that maybe talking about it is testament to how okay she is with it. "Not that night," she replies carefully, contemplating how the words feel on her lips. It's strange to admit it to someone who knows them both. She talks about it – him – in riddles to her best friend from college on their rare weekend getaways. On holidays when she goes home, her mother alludes to it in hypotheticals, and she answers in cryptic analogies.

Rachel's audible gasp of shock exacerbates the surrealism. "You mean you and Harvey actually had S-E-X?" she sputters, mouthing the last word noiselessly.

"What are you, twelve?" she scowls. "Yes we had sex, once." Technically it was more than once, but Donna doesn't think about that anymore either. She doesn't remember what he looked like in her shower or on her couch. She especially doesn't remember what he looked like in her bed.

"Damn," Rachel hisses under her breath. "_Damn_," she repeats and avidly searches Donna's cautiously cloaked face. "That's fucked up, Donna."

"You have no idea," Donna murmurs in response. Rachel fidgets in her seat like she can't quite contain this new slew of facts and is struggling with what it all means. Five years later, Donna can hardly wrap her mind around it. "You absolutely _cannot tell Mike,_" she issues the warning sternly.

"Of course," Rachel replies a little too quickly and looks pained at the prospect of having to keep this to herself. "So you just pretended it never happened? Was it that bad? Well I don't think there's a world where sex with Harvey could be bad," she rambles.

"Rachel," Donna interrupts her and hates how easy it is to reopen that door and let all the memories rush in. It was actually _that good_. For a long time, Harvey wasn't pretending. He was dogged in his pursuit, persistent and charming and irresistible. He was also broken. "_I_ pretended it never happened. I kept on pretending until he came around and started sleeping with Scottie again," she sums it up in fourteen simple words, and it feels like they keep coming full circle.

Rachel purses her lips like she finds the conclusion distasteful. "Why did you do it?" she wonders.

Donna gives her an incredulous look. _Do you really have to ask?_

Rachel laughs. "That's not what I meant, Donna. I know why you did _it_. Why the pretending?"

"I had no other choice. I had to save our more permanent relationship. We need each other in a very different way, and being together in that way broke us for a long time."

"Maybe it broke you because you pretended it never happened."

Donna used to torture herself by playing out the different scenarios to their logical conclusions. She used to think about it incessantly, but she doesn't let herself do it now. "He wasn't ready to be with me," she says simply.

"Is he ready now?"

Her immediate answer is _no_, but her stabbing self-awareness accuses _her _of not being ready. She thinks of Tom pulling on his discarded clothes and kissing her goodbye. She thinks she's somehow become attached to the transiency of life's snippets and terrified of its permanencies. She tries to find a way to put this in words, and she can almost grapple with it until Harvey strolls into the bar with Scottie, Jessica and Louis. Her words get stuck in her throat as Rachel's gaze snaps to the quad and registers guilt.

Donna swallows the scotch in large gulps to relieve the dryness in her mouth. Across the early evening crowd, the four of them are all smiles and muted laughter. Scottie clings to his arm like he's a prized possession. "Really, Rachel," she hisses furiously, glaring at her companion just as Louis spots them and announces it to the others.

"I'm _so _sorry!" Rachel whispers back, and they both plaster on large smiles as the lawyers approach them.

It's a flurry of greetings for all of thirty seconds. Harvey is markedly surprised. Surprised that she's out? Surprised that they're at the same place? She doesn't dwell on it, but despite her best efforts, she's hyperaware of his every move and everything his warm gaze catches on from the freckles on her shoulder to the hem of her emerald green silk dress.

"I haven't been here since Hardman's going away party five years ago," Harvey says tellingly. Their eyes meet and hold for a few interminable seconds.

"Louis said we should see what's become of the place. They've changed it quite a bit," Jessica adds and takes in her surroundings.

Donna drops Harvey's gaze and glowers at Louis suspiciously.

"It must have been on my mind," the accused says unceremoniously with a wide grin. It's so wide that she calls it contrived. She wants to smack it off his meddling face especially when Scottie's hand slides down Harvey's sleeve, and her fingers slide into his unassuming palm. He gives her fingers a quick squeeze before quickly letting them fall back to her side. Donna smiles sardonically at the display so typical of Harvey.

"I come here often," Rachel interjects with a tight-lipped smile. "I just love the ambience and the band."

Scottie nods and divides a wary glance between Donna and Harvey.

"Alright ladies, we won't keep you any longer," Jessica announces regally, and a waiter shows up miraculously at her side as if summoned by her mere will to be seated. "I have a late dinner to attend, so let's get down to business." Jessica smiles at the two of them before they're ushered to their table.

The residual silence is tense as they down their drinks.

"We could leave," Rachel suggests contritely.

Donna would love nothing better than to leave, but it's way too transparent. Scottie is almost as attuned as Donna and Harvey are to the charged tension between them. And Tom is probably well on his way over. _Fuck._ "No, we can't leave," she says. "So who hatched this _brilliant _plan – and why?" she queries acidly.

Rachel swallows her apprehension. "Well, it was Louis's idea. He said you and Harvey weren't on good terms, and that we all needed a good serendipitous party," she recounts. "I suggested the venue," she admits. "I also told Mike to come by later," she adds on a whisper.

"Great," Donna snaps. Unbidden, the waiter brings them seconds – well thirds for Donna, but tonight she's not counting.

For the next fifteen minutes, they bounce between half-hearted explanations. Donna admits to herself that she's been far-removed from Harvey and his myriad of tangential problems for months. Mike, apparently, has been trying really hard to find a way back in, but Harvey has adamantly shut him out. No act is redeeming enough in the face of such tragic betrayal. An accidental party is not the answer, but she keeps that to herself as Rachel continues to elicit her sympathies.

When Tom is finally led into this circumstantial gathering by the bubbling blond herself, Donna is a little tipsy and inexplicably anxious. He throws a subtle wink her way and sits on one of the barstools. His friend occupies the barstool to his left. A small, unattractive man with dark eyes hidden behind wiry glasses, he provides a contrast that unfairly emphasizes Tom's effortless appeal.

She doesn't notice Rachel has gone quiet until the other woman follows her gaze to the bar.

"Oh my word, _who is_ _that_?"

Donna shrugs in false innocence. It's the perfect night for mind fucks. "He's cute," she observes offhandedly.

"He's _hot_," Rachel corrects her. "The brunettes at seven o'clock think so too," she points out, nodding towards a pair of dark-haired women weaving their way towards Tom and his friend. "He lasted all of one minute alone," Rachel giggles.

Donna looks away, unthreatened in the least. She's relieved that Jessica and company are sitting behind her. She can pretend she hasn't been buzzing with awareness since Harvey made his untimely appearance. Out of the corners of her eyes, she can see Tom excuse himself, leaving both women disappointed and engaged in conversation with his friend. He's holding a drink as he makes his way over to their table.

"Donna," Rachel whispers urgently. "_Blue eyes_ is walking towards us."

Sure enough, _blue eyes _stops at Donna's side, flashing a brilliant smile. "Ladies, do you mind if I join you?" he asks cheekily.

Rachel looks at Donna, who preempts the introduction by sticking her hand out. _Play along, Tom. _"Donna Paulsen," she says steadily when he encloses her hand in his warm, familiar grasp. Confusion flashes across his gaze, and his smile turns uneasy, weary of the games.

"Tom Walker," he answers, pulling up a chair to their table. He offers his hand to Rachel next, whose giddy smile makes her look like a little girl. Dressed in washed blue jeans, a baby blue shirt and a dark gray button-down vest, he looks fits the bill of the confident, unavailable architect. He doesn't pretend to be interested in Rachel. His piercing gaze is unerringly consumed by Donna. "So, Donna, what do you do?" he asks, lips twisted with irony.

She smiles at him and is much too aware of how Rachel is engrossed in whatever's happening on Harvey's table. "Legal secretary," she replies slowly. "What do you do, Tom Walker?" Rachel starts to look a little uncomfortable.

"I'm an architect." He drinks leisurely from his _Cuba Libre_. Under the table, his hand covers her bare knee, charcoal-stained fingertips tracing the edge of her silky dress. The warmth in his gaze ignites into something more heated. Donna looks away and gently slides his hand away. _Easy, Tom_.

From the way Rachel keeps shifting in her chair and looking in Harvey's direction, she thinks he must be watching them. Rachel starts clearing her throat loudly, and Donna fights hard to curb the impulse to turn around.

She focuses on Tom and smiles convincingly. She can do this. "That sounds like fun."

"It is," he agrees. Rachel clears her throat again, but Tom is completely oblivious to her. "You have beautiful hair."

"Donna, can we talk?" Harvey's hand sends a jolt shooting down her arm from where it sits possessively on her exposed shoulder.

Donna looks up at him sharply. Standing rigidly behind her, Harvey is tense and uptight, anger simmering close to the surface of his shuttered expression.

Rachel looks like she's about to erupt into nervous hiccupping giggles. Tom looks even more flustered than he did a few minutes ago. "Excuse me," she says to Tom who nods tersely and eyes them with more curiosity than Donna is comfortable with. He's too affected by this for someone who gets dressed five minutes after sex. "This is my boss," she says unnecessarily. "He's usually more courteous." She makes excuses for Harvey because she knows it pisses him off.

Before Tom can introduce himself, Harvey mutters a barely audible, reluctantly polite, "excuse us." She comes to her feet, ignores the fact that she's dizzier than she should be and follows him. En route, Scottie catches her gaze, but Donna breaks that stare before it can mean anything. Mike's sad eyes trail them helplessly. _Oh God. What a fucking hot mess._

They stop somewhere quieter, a narrow hallway that leads to the lavish restrooms. There are barely any people, and he's staring her down like she's done him a grievance.

"We can't make out every time we're here," she deadpans.

"That's not funny," he bites out, and she keeps the rest of her smart-ass comments to herself.

She thinks it's pretty funny and has a hard time dropping her grin. It might be the scotch or the cosmopolitan, but this is all suddenly very amusing.

"Donna, _what are you doing_?" he snarls, the vein in his temple throbbing in time to his heartbeat. He's livid.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." She _really_ doesn't, she realizes as she meets his hot unflinching stare.

He runs an exasperated hand through his hair, and she wishes he would stop doing that. It only makes her want to pat it back into place. "Well for one, how the hell did we all end up here? Why does Mike think it's okay to be here and plead his case to _Scottie_? Who told him I'm here? Who put Louis up to this? And who the hell is that guy?" he fires the questions at her like a prosecutor, and her amusement dissolves as abruptly as it appeared.

"You think I have anything to do with this?" she sputters in disbelief. "Of all the arrogant, self-absorbed, presumptuous things in the world! How dare you! _I _have gone to lengths to stay out of your way for months. I wouldn't touch this with a ten-foot pole," she bellows furiously. "And how the hell is _that guy_ any of your business?" She makes a move to leave, but he grabs her elbow as she's brushing past him, forcibly stopping her. She wants to stomp her feet in frustration as he holds her in place.

"Donna," he says in a maddeningly quiet, melting voice. His gaze brightens into something naked and defenseless. "I'm sorry. That was thoughtless and uncalled for. This place is," he trails off and lets go of her arm because he knows he has her transfixed. "This place is just messing with my head," he admits.

"What do you want, Harvey?" she asks tiredly.

He searches her face for something he can't define. "I need you back," he says, and it's one in a list of equivocal confessions she doesn't know what to do with.

She's exhausted her energy for denials, and he's way closer than she wants him to be. "It'll happen," she promises softly. "Eventually."

He nods but looks unconvinced.

"We just need to leave it alone for a little while," she adds for good measure.

His eyes track a lock of her hair to her shoulder. "He's right you know," he says finally like he's satisfied with leaving their future alone for a little while.

"Who?"

"_That guy_," he mimics the sharp turn of her words and smiles lopsidedly. The dimple sinks into the corner of his mouth, and he looks impossibly alluring. "You do have beautiful hair."

Before she can think about it – and she blames this one solely on the scotch – she lifts her hand and gently lays it against his shaven cheek. Her thumb catches on his dimple. He closes his eyes, and she ignores the giant lump in her throat. She doesn't know why everything hurts so much. She feels like a hapless creature trapped under the sun's magnified glare, burning alive. Her fingertips trace his neat sideburns tenderly. "So do you," she teases, but her voice is not light or airy. It carries with heavy poignancy.

He brings her hand to his lips and presses a reverent kiss into her palm. "You're beautiful."

"Harvey," she scolds him and wills back the tears clawing at the backs of her eyes. She's over this, really. This is the mandatory closing scene. "Don't do this."

"Do what?"

"Don't take us five years back."

"I won't," he pledges earnestly, releasing her hand. "I'm with Scottie now. You were right, Donna. We've both moved on. I know you're not in love with me. I just wish you would stop punishing me for implying it," he sighs and tugs at his tie to loosen the knot. "I just want us to be _us_ again."

She's not even sure what that is anymore, but she gives him a sunny, reassuring smile. "We should get back to our tables," she says.

He watches her closely for another ten seconds like he can read in her expression what he doesn't find in her words. Then he nods and leads her back into the bustling bar. Inside, they go their separate ways. At her table, Mike has pulled up an extra chair and is chattering animatedly with Tom. Rachel looks at her quizzically, but she shakes her head. _Nothing worth telling._

The hours of the night blur into each other, and there's at least another scotch and a martini. She feels his gaze on her back like a caress, but she doesn't think about it. Because he's _with Scottie now_. And she's _not with Tom_. Everything is exactly the way she wants it to be.

When Tom walks her to the exit at midnight, she meets Harvey's gaze for a fleeting moment. It smolders like fire, but she leaves it behind – just like she did the last time.

If October was about firsts, December is about repeat performances.

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**A/N:** Thank you for reading, my lovelies! This story has an inordinate amount of silent readers. I'd love to hear from you, even if it's a simple "good chapter" or "this sucks". Reviews are love xx


	5. Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Author's Note: Hello, cyber world! Well, this took a lot longer than expected. All I can say is life happened (finals, new job, travel, work, real life, the usual). Thank you all for your lovely reviews on the last chapter and for continuing to ask about this story. You all rock my socks – big time. Read on!

Disclaimer: Still a poor grad student (with a summer job).

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_5. __Let Sleeping Dogs Lie  
_"_I know you got plenty to offer baby,  
__But I guess I've taken quite enough.  
__While I'm some stain there on your bed sheet,  
__You're my diamond in the rough."  
__(Candy – Paolo Nutini)_

_**August 2007 – **_

There's something boyish and mussed about Ryan Drake.

Donna wonders if it's his casually tousled golden hair or his ripped jeans and tattered Converse shoes. He looks like an overgrown child, pensively occupying a corner of her couch, the stem of her wine glass lost between his calloused fingers. His green eyes are vibrant as they patiently follow her to the kitchen and back. He sits with the ankle of his right leg casually draped over his left knee, comfortably loose against her blue cushions.

She watches him surreptitiously, out of the corners of her eyes, and she occupies herself with menial tasks that clatter softly into the silence, not quite loud enough to shake either of them. They coexist in this contrived peace for what seems like hours. Time ticks from the kitchen clock, slow and heavy. It's only been twenty minutes since she found him on the stairs. Her busy hands and quiet companion have done little in the way of making her forget. She can still feel Harvey's firm thumbprints over the curves of her hipbones, etching unspoken promises and unspeakable desire. Possibilities pool in the base of her spine, lingering snippets of what could have been, and heat claws at her skin, climbing up her neck until she can feel it in the roots of her hair.

Ryan hums low in his throat, and Donna is ridiculously afraid it's because of the color blooming on her cheeks. She finds herself standing tall and silent by the gleaming counter, a faded green dishrag caught between her palm and the cool ceramic. She must look absurd in Versace and Louboutins, playing the Stepford wife after midnight on a Friday. Pursing her lips, she slides the dishrag to the far right of the ceramic counter and folds it into a neat, obsessive-compulsive square. He studies her movements carefully, and she's suddenly not sure what to make of him, his boyish countenance and his silence.

"So…" she begins and clicks past him into her bedroom. She feels his eyes on her until she's inside, leaving the door slightly ajar like their staggered, quiet conversation could survive the distance and barrier of walls. Her feet tingle as she steps out of her heels. The yellow dress slides down her body without fuss, and she thinks of Harvey's fist clenched around the delicate chiffon. Her mouth feels dry, empty, and God maybe she should have stayed. Every reckless instinct she possesses taunts her. Staying would have been easy, and she could still taste how much she wanted it, how mind-blowingly _good_ it had been that _other time_, how that made it worth it – _almost_. She slips into a pair of sleep-shorts and a loose heather gray shirt before walking barefoot into the living room, too distracted for a moment to notice the way the wineglass freezes en route to Ryan's lips. But his stare – steady and heated – finds her and sets her on edge.

This all suddenly feels like a terrible mistake. The whole night flashes before her eyes as a series of incredibly bad decisions.

She clears her throat, drawing Ryan's eyes back to hers.

He smiles, and his handsome face melts into a disarming mask of dimples and creased jade eyes. "Brown University," he says, eyeing the faded print on her t-shirt. "I didn't know that."

Donna manages to fashion her lips into what could pass for a smile. It's a passing acknowledgement, but the last thing she wants to do tonight is play a game of twenty-one-questions with Ryan Drake. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asks him because his excuse for showing up at her doorstep past midnight is a _terrible day_.

"About Brown University?" he asks innocently, still armed with his endearing smile.

"You're having a terrible day," she reminds him patiently, and she thinks that smile has a lot to do with why she hasn't snapped at him yet. "Well?" she prods impatiently

He rolls in his lips like she has him cornered, and he's already used up what ammunition he has. Or maybe it's like he tastes something bitter and sharp. She's not quite sure what any of this means. He unfurls his large frame and leans forward to place the wine glass on the table. "I got fired," he says suddenly and catches her wandering gaze.

She pauses long enough to make their eye contact unsettling. "I'm sorry. What happened?"

Shoulders bunched in a self-effacing shrug, he releases a long, tired breath. "I was…"

The knock at her door is rude and loud – unexpected. It slices into his unspoken words unapologetically. Their eyes snap to the entrance, hers worried and his surprised. They're both still as death as if suspended by the day's events, vastly different for each of them. There's another knock, more insistent this time. Her gaze darts back to Ryan's, and he smiles at her lopsidedly, devoid of judgment, oddly knowing.

"You should probably get that," he suggests gently.

She nods – secretly glad for the instruction – and strides to the door with purpose. Her heart races past her footsteps, slamming into her ribcage in a misguided attempt to shatter her bones. She swallows thickly before reaching for the round knob and pulling the door open – no frills or fuss. As predictable as it is, her heart all but stops when she finds Harvey staring back at her with everything on the line and fiercely guarded molten eyes. Always fraught with contradictions. Always a harbinger of ambivalence. They stare at each other, and it becomes alarmingly difficult to breathe. She tracks the pattern of his shallow breaths and mimics the steady rise and fall of his chest because for some bizarre reason her life depends on it.

"How did you get in here?" She barely hears her own voice over the clamor inside her head. It feels easiest to settle the logistics of his presence because the implications are too daunting, too vast – too much.

"Ray," he says by way of explanation. There's a quiet calm about him – the measured spaces of his words, his steady gaze – that makes her ache.

"Of course," she mutters and then, "you shouldn't be here," quickly like she's only just realized it herself. Part of her vehemently wishes the words would send him back down the hallway and far away from her corner of Manhattan. She doesn't confess to any other part.

Harvey doesn't react. He works his jaw for a good ten seconds, chewing on words he can't seem to find. Sounds and letters and meanings have frustrated him because he can't quite fashion them into what he wants. They keep failing him. Funny, lawyers are supposed to be clever with words. She wants to twist her mouth with humor, cut with sharp words like they can make light of this too.

But he's not smiling or amused. His gaze burns golden under the harsh neon lights, and everything is stuck inside her. His pale blue shirt is open at the collar, the sleeves unceremoniously rolled up his strong forearms into his elbows. His hair is meshed at odd angles, askew with finger trails – his and hers. He looks completely undone. When he reaches for her, she wants to bolt. The sure warmth of his fingers on the inside of her wrist keeps her in place. She could run, but she doesn't. She lets her pulse thunder under his fingertips, and it's all she really needs to tell him. He pulls her forward into the hallway, and she has a brief thought about Ryan, but then his lips find the corner of her mouth and she can't even remember her own name. All this longing, this desperate wanting reaches a deafening crescendo. Everything is pounding or maybe it's the sound of her blood sliding hotly through her veins. He touches her delicately, hands that are barely there, teasing and evoking and burning. They ease her into him without really guiding her, subtle maneuvers that drive her body into his instinctively, and he's breathing down her neck. She makes a sound in the back of her throat, something needy and unlike her. It's too loud in the quiet hallway, and it draws his mouth to hers. When he kisses her, it's soft and slow and all she wants is fast and hard and everything in between. He presses her to the wall, his tongue buried in her mouth, circling, searching, collecting her taste like he wants to make her part of him. The contours of his body harden against hers, and she feels desire coil in her belly, agonizingly sweet and hot, achingly slow. Her hands slide across his shoulders, moving restlessly over the agile heat of him.

He doesn't pull back even as his mouth releases hers, and he presses hot, wet kisses from her jaw to the base of her neck. She squirms against him, her fingers tightening in his hair, and he rocks his hips against her once as his fist curls in her red hair. Somehow the wide collar of her shirt slips down her shoulder, and his lips find a dusting of freckles to nip at as his lower body presses into her again. She gasps for breath because something seems to be incinerating all of the oxygen in her hallway. Harvey lifts his head and presses a delicate nipping kiss to her parted lips. One of his hands skates over her collarbone, fingertips sliding down, taking her loose collar on a trip. She feels his other hand cupping her jaw, his thumb tilting her chin up, and she opens her eyes to find him staring at her, his pupils enormous and black, his eyelashes unfairly long. His fingers comb down the space between her collarbone and the swell of her breast. She lifts herself onto her tiptoes, bringing his hand lower and their bodies closer, and tugs his bottom lip into her mouth. It's all the invitation he needs. There's a rumble inside his chest, something low and sexy, and somehow the hand that was on her chin is on the very bare skin at the back of her thigh, lifting her leg, and she's being kissed hard.

"Donna? Are you okay?" Ryan's concerned voice sounds far inside her apartment. It barely registers in her brain until Harvey's body goes completely still against hers.

He pulls away and narrows his gaze on her like he's about to unleash a torrent of his once-elusive words, but she presses three fingers against his swollen lips.

"Yeah, Ryan, I'm fine. It's my neighbor," she calls back, desperately trying to sound normal. "I'll be back in a minute," she promises and slides past Harvey to soundly shut the door to her apartment. She thanks her lucky stars that Ryan didn't decide to come out and look for her. When she turns back to face Harvey, her body is still humming with awareness, buzzing like a livewire, but he looks livid, anger draped around his arousal like an iron shield.

He glares at her, the set of his jaw firm and unrelenting. "There's a man inside your apartment," he states the obvious with unchecked disdain, and the way his eyes go completely cold around his dilated pupils makes her heart hurt.

"Yes," she says softly, searching his stony expression for any sign of warmth. "A friend," she emphasizes and hates that she has to spell it out for him because every insecurity he's ever had rears its grotesque head.

"A friend?" he echoes incredulously, and his eyes glint with something violent. "It's one past midnight." The heavy accusation in his voice has him writing her off as a cheater, a new and improved version of his mother, one that he didn't see coming. She's his very own sucker punch.

Donna connects the dots as he steps back, but she keeps her cool even as contempt crawls into his demeanor like an unwanted visitor. "He's _just_ a friend. He's here to talk. He was downstairs when I got here."

He laughs, and it's inappropriately loud. She physically aches for him. "I'm not stupid, Donna," he hisses.

He actually _really _is, but Donna is hard-pressed to tell him. She purses her lips and pulls up the shoulder of her loose-necked gray t-shirt. "You need to leave," she says calmly because she knows it's for the best. This has to be the end of their impromptu whirlwind of an affair.

Harvey doesn't budge, and she knows it's because he believes her. She's never lied to him before, and he's always been rational to a fault. Still, he feels obligated to push, to accuse and pull the truth from her. "How long have you been seeing him?" he presses on doggedly.

She glowers at him, fighting the urge to slap him. "I _met_ him three weeks ago, Harvey. I'm not seeing him. You need to leave now," she repeats.

He laughs out of the corner of his mouth, but this time it's only a hiss of a sound, ugly and bare. He doesn't know what to do with himself. "Things sure happen fast in Donna Paulsen's world," he says bitterly.

"You're drunk. You should go," she urges him quietly.

"I'm not _drunk_," he snaps. "I'm _not_ drunk." He collects himself long enough to think about it, and he's maybe a little tipsy but definitely not drunk. "So you've been seeing this guy for three weeks? Why didn't you tell me? You _knew_ what I was trying to do," he says accusingly.

She sighs and closes her eyes, resigned to having this conversation. "I'm not seeing anyone," she mutters for the umpteenth time. "And I have no idea what the hell you're trying to do besides make a scene."

Something in his posture relaxes like he's finally convinced that she hasn't been sleeping with Ryan Drake while _he's_ been trying to sleep with her. He touches her arm, the palm of his hand warm against her humming skin. "I need us – you – to not pretend for _one night_," he murmurs, and she can see the frustration lurking behind his words. He's been reining it in for so long, it's almost bursting at the seams.

She tries to step away from his touch, but there's nowhere to go. "Already did that, not going there again."

The sigh he breathes out is slow and weary. "Donna, we had sex," he says matter-of-factly, staring her right in the eyes as his darken in remembrance. "It was _incredible_. There," he says, his voice several decibels lower, painfully intimate. He looks like he's singlehandedly cleared the elephant out of the room. "Why won't you talk to me about it? Tell me the truth."

She shrugs, steeling herself against the earnest expression on his handsome face. "There is no _truth_. There's nothing to say," she replies, curt and businesslike in her dismissal.

He lets her go, and she mourns the loss of his warmth. "Only lies," he mutters and nods as if he's known that all along.

She thinks she's known that too, but it irks her that he just seems to be understanding it now. "Do you want to know the truth?" she asks before she can stop herself because she can't imagine leaving things on _lies_.

His eyes find hers again, and they flicker with something that looks too much like hope. "Yes."

"Let's say I let you in. I let you in and we have sex again." His eyes flash bright and wanting at the suggestion, and she curbs the surging response inside her. "How long is it going to be before we screw this up? A day? A month? A year? You'll go for a celebratory dinner with Jessica and take a waitress home. Or you'll be up against Scottie in court and you'll settle the case in your bedroom. You don't _want_ to commit to anything, Harvey, and I'm not doing half-measures. I'm not going to be your secretary and occasional fuck-buddy. I want more. I _deserve _more. So, please don't put me through this. I am _this close_ to letting you in, knowing that it would be the stupidest thing I've ever done." She pauses to draw in a deep tremulous breath, hates that he starts shimmering behind the curtain of tears gathering in her eyes. She blinks them back stubbornly. She is _not _going to cry. "Please – I'm begging you – _please_ leave."

He looks gutted as he stares at her in complete silence, his words once again lost. It takes him three minutes to straighten to his full height and take a step back with resolve. "Goodbye Donna," he says at last, and it's all finally – _finally _– over.

Her short, toneless, "goodnight," abruptly severs the closing scene. She turns around and walks back into her apartment, the door clicking shut with finality behind her.

All she wants to do is collapse, but she smiles and puts on a masquerade for Ryan Drake.

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A/N: We're halfway there, folks! There's only one more "flashback" chapter left. It's going to be set in July 2007, and yes it's the ever so-elusive _other time._ Sequencing remains unclear at the moment. Thank you for reading! Reviews are tangible love xx


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